Battle of One
by deformography
Summary: God takes with no intention of giving.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own; I borrow with the odd exception.  
**Author's Note: **This deals with heavy subject matter and complex implications. Don't read if such things upset you. And if you are reading, do so with a very, _very _open mind or you're not going to understand.

**XXX**

Today was one of those days where I didn't understand why I'd gotten out of bed. My insides were still frosted over and had been for nearly two weeks. People always talked about how death wasn't a bad thing. It made way for new life and was supposed to be part of God's plan, but I had to wonder what sort of God took away the lovers, and the feelers, and the friends. Since I was little, I was taught to thank the Lord for everything he'd given me and take nothing for granted because while he had the power to give, he also had the power to take. What they didn't teach me, though, was that when he did take, he did it mercilessly. And there was never any intention of giving it back.

The only thing he ever intended to do was sever every human bond and set fire to every single emotion we had. Growing up, I had nothing but faith; I believed everything he did was right and just. The relationship between him and us humans was supposed to be all give and take. But I'd done more growing up in fourteen days than the last sixteen years of my life, and with growing up came the heavy burden of truth. My eyes were finally unveiled, and I realized that there was no God. There was nothing.

That didn't simplify things any, though. I lost my faith, and a part of me died along with it. All these years I'd been holding onto shreds of fictitious teachings like they'd save me from damnation if I took them to my grave with me, when in reality, it was just to keep us sedated and from thinking for ourselves. I could see why. When people got to thinking, it was dangerous. The lies were like protection—layers of armour that needed to be stripped away. I'd been stripped, and burned, and melted down more times than I cared to count. But this was more like having a grenade shoved down my throat and letting it blow me apart from the inside out.

It was enough to make me wish I'd just stop breathing. I pulled my jacket around me tightly and wiggled my toes in my shoes. The wind pushed around dead leaves like they were nothing. Watching them made my heart fall into my stomach, igniting the flame that sparked my nausea. As my stomach acid sloshed around, scorching the back of my throat, I knew I shouldn't have come to school. I wasn't mentally or emotionally prepared for any of it. My mom had told me to stay home, but I couldn't. Sitting around all day was a guaranteed way to drive myself insane. In times like this, sanity was a precious, precious thing.

"You know he never loved you, right?"

Shuddering, I bit on my bottom lip and dug through my purse for a smoke. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Lacy Collins who'd said that. She had to be the world's biggest cow, or the devil's spawn if you wanted buy into some religious garbage. But regardless of what I called her or what I thought she was, it didn't change the fact that her words sunk right into the pit of my stomach. Even though I knew she was bound to say something to me eventually, I couldn't stop my hands from shaking as I placed my cigarette between my teeth and lit it.

"And you know all about love, _right_?" I asked through my smoke. "You were with him for a week. Seven days—that's nothing."

It didn't even compare to my 1096 days with him. Three years to her one goddamn week. She had the audacity to stand in front of me and claim he never loved me when she didn't even know him. It took more than a measly 168 hours to know somebody, especially a person like him. He would've taken a lifetime to understand, and as pathetic and desperate as it sounds, I was willing to give that up. I'd already given him so much that I figured a little more wouldn't hurt. But he was hardly cold and already rotting in some stupid pine box, so I couldn't. I would never touch him, or breathe him, or taste him, or smell him, and it killed me to know that last person he had on his tongue was her.

"Look." Lacy jerked me around to face her. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red, unshed tears caught in the crease of lower lash-line. "I loved him; we were like Romeo and Juliet."

I took a long, long drag from my cigarette and blew the smoke in her face. Jerking my arm away, I gritted my teeth and glared at her, daring her to move or say one more stupid thing. Comparing Dallas to Romeo was like calling the Wicked Witch of the West Rapunzel.

"Why don't you do us both a favour and stab yourself, then?" I sneered and raked a hand through my hair to keep from slapping her. If this was how Dallas felt every time he had to put up with some annoying girl—even myself, half the time—then I felt for him. "You need to mind your own business."

"I need to mind my own business?" she repeated, "I was his girlfriend."

"You were with him for a week!" I shouted. "So don't you dare stand in front of me and pretend like you really meant anything to him."

"You have no idea how it feels to lose someone you love, Sylvia," Lacy said. There was so much conviction behind her words that I nearly believed her. On some level, she was right because I hadn't cried yet. I'd been cold, and stoic, and withdrawn, but I hadn't cried. And I wasn't going to. "I watched him die."

My hands were shaking to the point where I couldn't even hide it. She didn't watch him die, I did. I spent three years, standing idly by while everything he thought he could maybe let in killed him. It got to the point where I couldn't even look at him sometimes because I was so sick of seeing how dead he was. When I saw the marks his dad left on him, I hurt with him. When he looked at me, and his eyes were bloodshot, my insides fell apart, my heart stopped beating, and I wanted so badly to just grab him and tell him that not every day was going to be this bad. If I thought that maybe he'd believe me, I would've done it. But then again, I never could bring myself to lie to him. He deserved so much better than what he was getting, and I could never give it to him.

There were all these things I wanted to ask Lacy. I wanted to know if she knew that Dallas had watched his dad kill his mom, or if some nights he didn't want to go home because of what his dad was guaranteed to do to him. There were nights when I stayed up with him, listening to him talk about how as soon as he had the money, he was headed for Texas. He entertained thoughts of a life in the rodeo, and I knew it was stupid, but I let him talk. Then there were nights where I listened to his hysterics. It scared me because I never knew what to do, and I couldn't even say anything because there are never any words to make something like that okay.

"You didn't even go to his funeral." Lacy shoved me roughly and sucked back a breath. "The only person who was _supposed_ to be there, and you didn't even show up."

I choked on my own confusion when I opened my mouth next. That just proved how self-centered and stupid I was. I should've gone, but I couldn't because I didn't have it in me at the time. Seeing him pale, and cold, and immobile was the same as admitting defeat. Anybody who knew him knew that he wasn't going to be happy until the mortician had sewn him up. Now that he was exactly where he wanted to be, I should've been happy for him. I should've been able to tell myself that he was happier this way and just move on, but moving on meant forgetting, and I wasn't ready to forget him yet.

"So, I didn't go," I said, "but that doesn't mean I never loved him."

My heart gave a heavy twang, assaulting the inside of my chest cavity. It sunk back into my lungs and sat there, making me rasp and suffocate under my own words. I was going to throw up or something.

"Did you ever tell him that?" Her tone was softer and her eyes were wide. She was watching me, waiting for an answer that she could throw in my face. Her stare had teeth that hooked on my vocal chords and caused my voice to snag on the torn tissue of my throat.

But had I ever said it? No. My pride got in the way every time, and I never wanted him to know that I depended on him. He had so many other things that took up his time and his attention that I didn't think he'd really be able to understand it even if I had. And he wouldn't have said it back, anyways, because he wouldn't have cared. Words are so easy to forget, and I wanted him to remember it. He never would've—it would've been one of those things he glazed over and convinced himself had never happened. There were already so many things he had to forget about; I didn't want that to be another one of them.

That was selfish, though, and I wondered if he'd still be here if I'd told him at least once. Showing him hadn't been enough. He _needed_ to hear it, and the most I could do was brush his hair out of his eyes or kiss him. My actions were laced with bigger intentions and more meaning than him or I would ever understand. But he always forced himself to ignore the small details and push me away because he was afraid. What absolutely disgusted me, though, was how I let him push, and push, and push. I let him be afraid. So I killed him the same way his dad did, and his mom did, and those stupid Johns he was selling himself to did. I was just as lousy, and filthy, and disgusting as they were.

The only difference was that I had loved him. I had since I met him on the outskirts of town, sitting in some rundown little diner called Cosmo's. He was giving some waitress a hard time, calling her the sort of names that made my cheeks heat up. His stare made me want to crawl under the floorboards and die, and his voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He was terrifying, and intriguing, and vile all at once. I wouldn't have had it any other way. It was cheesy, but he was like a work of art with the world sewn to his shoulder.

I'd spent the last three years of my life dealing with that. Dealing, but never trying to fix. Maybe I hadn't enjoyed every minute of it, and sometimes I wanted to cut my losses and move on, but I needed him.

"Did I ever tell him?" I looked at Lacy and shook my head as I bit down on my lower lip. "No."

Lacy wiped her eyes and glared at me. Her lips were trembling, and her mascara was leaving thick black lines down her face. "You're an idiot," she hissed.

"We're both idiots," I told her and looked away. "A rose by any other name, right?"

"You should've been there."

I shrugged and inhaled deeply.

People did the damnedest things.


End file.
